


i shall never die for love, young men believe me

by orphan_account



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Military Men, M/M, What Military Campaign Are They On? Who Cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should marry."</p><p>"And why such a dire proclamation, Laurens?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	i shall never die for love, young men believe me

**Author's Note:**

> halbahblubbuabhblaubhleh. Title is from an English folk song. This sort of shit is obviously why I'm studying history.

_“In spite of Schuyler’s black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you; so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now.”_

_Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, 1780._

 

It is night. A heavy rain is falling against the tent, and Hamilton is writing.

“You should marry,” Laurens says.

Hamilton hardly even looks up; more of a restless twitch of the head. He dips his quill again. “And why such a dire proclamation, Laurens? Leave off for now, Washington needs this written by tomorrow.”

Laurens stays silent for a few moments, feeling the tightness of his jaw. “Hamilton – ” he starts again.

“ _John_ ,” Hamilton snaps. The scratching of the quill stops, and Hamilton has the audacity to sigh as though someone has done him some great wrong. The man rants for hours and hours, gets the colour high in his cheeks, insults his superiors, talked his way out of the West Indies before he could shave, forces his opinion on any passing stranger, cants until his voice becomes rough like a crow and yet now he begrudges Laurens two minutes of his time? How dare the man lean over him at three in the morning, thigh on thigh, and rhapsodise for half an hour on how Laurens is wine, stars, freedom itself; and then deny Laurens his voice?

“You know I speak the truth,” Laurens plunges into the opportunity provided by irritable silence. “You are not short of women, Ham, you’ve never been.”

Hamilton just scoffs at that like a schoolboy.

“It can’t go on like this,” Laurens says.

He can not see the whole of Hamilton’s face from where he stands – just the line of a cheek lit a warm yellow, tip of expressive nose, corner of expressive mouth. “Well then, my dear Joan Laurens. Allow me to make an honest girl of you. Shall we wed in the spring?”

“I hate you,” Laurens says in a tone almost fierce, storming forwards until his thighs bump the back of Hamilton’s chair. Ham leans his head back just a little for a moment, so that his hair tickles against Laurens’ shirt. It has been an eternity, this: the marching, the rain, the tents, Washington’s frown, men taking ill, Hamilton’s quill, always moving.

“I don’t think it’s within your capacity to feel such a sentiment,” Hamilton says, a touch of irritation.

“Don't know what you mean. Hate is well within my capacity.” Laurens places one hand on the rough wood of the chair, digs his fingers in as if it would bend and mould like warm wax beneath his grip. The candle flickers and shadows move erratic. Rain whispers and trickles, eternal. Outside, in the morning, it will be a hell of mud, sharp light, air so clean and hard it clears the sinuses of the nose. “I hate many things, God forgive me.”

“But never me.” A touch of hope. 

Laurens lets his hand slip from the chair to Hamilton’s shoulder, that stubborn curve of wool and muscle. Hamilton’s ink-stained hand comes briefly up to touch his, then it is on the quill again. Moving, self-assured, and proud. Sometimes Laurens wants viciously for both of them to die by British hands while they are still young. But then he remembers that while Laurens is willing to let go of his most dearly cherished ambitions and plans for one grand moment of sacrifice, Hamilton fought his way back from death and now insists on life. 

And now Hamilton is insisting upon a tender response, tender like his letters are when they are not peevish at Laurens’ limited replies, or engineered to make him blush. _Never you_ , Laurens would repeat, and it would all be well for another night or week or month; but it’s true, Hamilton must marry, and someday the war must end.

Laurens turns away - says not a word. Tis his only defence for now. 


End file.
